MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YO RKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
WAIT AWHILE. 
Cast a seed into the earth— 
Wait awhile ; 
Cheer the little flow’ret’s birth 
With a smile; 
Shelter it from wind and storm 
Sweeping by; 
No rude hand let it deform, 
Lest it die. 
In the summer it shall bloom, 
Fragrant with a rich perfume, 
All your care repaying. 
Store with truth an infant's mind, 
Wait awhile; 
Greet the first fruits that you find 
With a smile. 
Bid it, with truth’s flag unfurl'd, 
Move apace; 
In its battles with the world 
Teach it grace; 
Then, when youthful years have flown, 
See the child to manhood grown, 
God's whole law obeying. 
SONNET TO SUMMER. 
BY J. G. SAXE. 
O, BAI.MY, breezy, beauteous, bounteous summer 1 
To men and women, little girls and boys, 
To birds and beasts, thou bringest many joys; 
And art indeed a truly welcome comer! 
Now stroll in pastures green, fat sheep and cows, 
Now vernal blades prepare for autumn sheaves, 
And woods, (though stationary,) take their leaves, 
And all politely make their prettiest boughs! 
Now the blithe farmer in the early morn 
With sturdy steps strides o’er the fallow field, 
And plants, in hope tiiat, though a while concealed, 
The grateful Harvest may “ confess the corn,” 
And so return him from the fruitful mould, 
His gift augmented by a hundred fold! 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
JANE HARVEY’S INTRODUCTION. 
BY MRS. S. WEBSTER LLOYD. 
“ William,” said old Mr. Harvey to his 
favorite son one day as they sat on the stoop 
after dinner, “ William can this nice lady¬ 
love of yours go into the kitchen and cook 
a hungry man a dinner ? I am afraid she 
’aint fit for a farmer’s wife, boy. The girls 
now-a-days aint good for much to help a 
poor man live. Your mother and I are get¬ 
ting old, and wo want to give up the farm 
to you,—but when you bring a wife here, 
don’t expect she can sit in the parlor and 
play the piano, and have your old mother 
attend to the cooking and make the butter 
and cheese. I am sadly afraid the lady you 
have been talking about won’t do for us 
plain folks. Wo have worked hard and 
want a good home in our old age, and very 
little comfort there will bo if every thing 
about the house is left at sixes and sevens, 
while your lady wife sings and works mus¬ 
lin and does nothing else. I have been 
thinking that perhaps Thomas and Hannah 
had better come home again, and you and 
Jane go on the new farm. I did hope you 
would make up your mind to marry Phebe 
Smith.” 
“ Phebe Smith,” replied William; “ why, 
father, she is the coarsest girl in all the 
town—a voice like a speaking trumpet, and 
an ai-m liko a blacksmith.” 
“So your lady is handsome, too, is she. 
and accomplished. I wish she was rich as 
well, then you would not be dependent up¬ 
on your old father’s farm.” 
“Neither am I dependent now. I can 
get a living. I can teach a year or two, 
and with the means thus acquired together 
with the little I have now can find a home 
in a new counti’y where homes are cheap. 
Jane exports I am poor ; I have never told 
her I was to live at homo, or oven that I 
had a home, and she will not hesitate to 
share my log cabin, fine lady as you imag¬ 
ine her to be.” 
“ Well, well, I wish I could see her. May 
bo she could learn to manage the bouse 
work if she has a disposition to bo useful, 
but I am afraid of these fancy articles. No, 
no, William, you mus’nt think of it; I know 
she wont do. Thomas and Hannah will 
have to come homo.” 
“But, father, Thomas’wife will never make 
your home pleasant and comfortable. She 
has a fretful, unhappy temper. God help 
you and mother if you are to spend the 
evening of your life with her.” 
“ And Jane Harvey is all sweetness and 
sunshine, as young mens sweethearts usully 
are before marriage. A few years experi¬ 
ence may toll you a different story as to her 
temper.” 
“A girl who has workod for three years to 
support a blind mother, cannot havo an un¬ 
kind heart, even though the work bo music 
and embroidery. Perhaps she may not now 
be a skillful cook. I havo no fears but that 
under mother’s direction sho will soon be¬ 
come an accomplished house-wifo, a house¬ 
hold slave I never intend her to be. I do 
not care so much for myself, well as I love 
the old home, but your and mothers old age 
ought to be quiet and peaceable, but with 
Thomas’ wife for a mistress here that could 
never bo the case.” 
Thoold gentleman thought fora few mo¬ 
ments. He could not accuso William of 
unfairness, for four years before, Thomas, 
the eldest son, had brought a bride into his 
fatherVfamily, a hustling, scheming, hard¬ 
working woman, so intent upon adding to 
the very respectable sum of money which 
she brought her husband, as to care for lit¬ 
tle else. No matter how much comfort was 
sacrificed, so that money was laid up. No 
matter how much the body was worn, and 
the mind worried, if so bo that all the odds 
and ends were saved. She was ambitious 
to be a good manager, but she thought very 
little whether sho was a good wife, and af¬ 
ter struggling on together for three years, 
the old gentloman had purchased another 
farm, to which Thomas had removed. To 
make sure of a good wife for William, old 
Mr. Turner had selected one himself, Phebe 
Smith. Very plain sho was indeed, and 
very little liko the beautiful, sweet-temper¬ 
ed Jane Harvey, whom William had select¬ 
ed for himself, while pedagoguing the pre¬ 
ceding winter in .a village some fifteen miles 
from home. 
“ William,” said his father, raising his 
head suddenly, “ you bring her here on 
trial.” 
“Bring her here on trial,” exclaimed the 
now indignant son, “no indeed. I have 
not pload to bo taken home on Jane’s ac¬ 
count, or my own; ’tis your and mother’s 
happiness for which I fear, and you must 
decide for yourself. 1 shall como to make 
a permanent homo hero, or with the little 
moans I can command, I shall go west in 
the spring, but I shall never take Thomas’ 
farm and live within hearing distance of all 
the misery that would result from his com¬ 
ing homo again.” 
“ I wish I could only once see Jane Har¬ 
vey,” said the old gentleman. 
“But you are not willing to tako her on 
trust.” 
“ I havo suffered once from so doing.” 
“ True, you have father, and I can scarce¬ 
ly blame you for your want of faith in my 
judgment.” 
“The best judgments err, when a harnl- 
somo faco is in the question. If you could 
only love Phebe Smith.” 
“But I don’t love Phebe Smith, and I do 
love Jane Harvey, and so would you father, 
if you would throw aside your prejudices and 
consent to recoivo her as your daughter.” 
“ Which I am afraid to do. I had rather 
trust Hannah, for an evil you know is less 
to bo dreaded than one you know not; and 
William, a girl who gots her living bv teach¬ 
ing music, may be kind hearted and amia¬ 
ble, but she will never learn to work,— so 
don’t think any more of bringing your fine 
lady to bo mistress here.” 
“Very w r ell,” said William, and the con¬ 
ference ended. 
It will bo proper now to proceed with the 
explanation that old Mr. Turner’s abrupt 
proposal to come homo on trial interrupted. 
Hannah Turner had not been pleased w hen 
she and her husband were expelled from 
the homestead. Scheming and calculating 
as sho was, sho had determined to he rein¬ 
stated there, and the first step thereunto 
had been to set forth the virtues of her near 
neighbors daughter, Phebe, in such a light 
that the old gentleman had set his heart on 
having his youngest son marry her, which 
Hannah knew well William never would do. 
for besido his predilection for Miss Harvey, 
William was a young man of refinement and 
cultivation, and more than all, a connoisseur 
in femalo beauty. Hannah know the tenaci¬ 
ty with which the father clung to any pro¬ 
ject, and sho rightly calculated that his fail¬ 
ing to bring William to his views with re¬ 
gard to Miss Smith, would result in Wil¬ 
liam’s leaving homo and Thomas’ recall.— 
Beside, sho did not fail to let her lather 
know the occupation of William’s intended 
bride, although sho did not tell him w’hat 
she had learned herself, that Jane Harvey’s 
filial love had led her to toil in a farmers 
kitchen, that sho might acquire the means 
to perfect herself in the science of music. 
“ She is a rare girl,” said the clergyman, of 
whom Hannah inquired ; “ I know her be- 
foi’o her father died. She always possessed 
superior musical talents, which she had just 
begun to cultivate when sho and her mother 
were loft penniless to battle with tho world 
as best they might. Jane was only four¬ 
teen then ; her mother was always feeble, 
and could baroly support herself by doing 
plain sewing in families; hut young as sho 
then was, Jane Harvey resolved to complete 
by hor own energy and exertion what her 
father begun, and entering tho well regulat¬ 
ed farmer’s kitchen of Esquire Fields, she 
labored for two years, laying up her earn¬ 
ings for future uso, and obtaining a knowl¬ 
edge of household affairs that will make her 
a capital wife. Then she unfolded hor 
plans to me. I had but a small salary, and 
could assist her only by making known her , 
circumstances to Mason & Webb, of Boston, 
who consented to receive her for a year, 
which was extended to two, and resulted in 
her becoming an accomplished music teach¬ 
er at tho age of eighteen. Her mother 
about that time lost her sight, and Jane’s 
success in teaching has enabled her to 
maintain them both comfortably and re¬ 
spectably.” 
Hannah winced under all this array of 
good qualities,and resolved to bring forward 
more assiduously the sterling virtues of 
Phebe Smith, all of which the old gentleman 
readily admitted.—but William somehow 
could never associate the neatness and 
order of tho Smith tenement with the care¬ 
less dress and general appoaranco of Phebe, 
nor separate tho beautiful white bread and 
nice yellow butter his father praised so 
much, from Phebo’s active, stirring mother. 
Besides, he had often been applied to by 
Phebe for books, and whenever ho had fur¬ 
nished her a trashy, worthless love story 
tho light in her chamber was obsorvod to 
remain burning half tho night. Then the 
yard that, according to Hannah, was under 
tho especial charge of Phebe, had never as¬ 
sumed its tasteful appearance until Hugh 
McDonald, who was tho son of a gentleman’s 
gardener in tho old country, had come to 
live with Mr. Smith,—and somohow William 
could not but suspect that Phebe openly or 
by implication appropriated the labors and 
virtues of her mother and Hugh. 
William was disappointed in tho result of 
his interview with his father, for the death 
of Mrs Harvey had loft Jane alono in tho 
world, and had hoped to introduce her im¬ 
mediately into his father’s family; but ho 
consoled himself by building airy castles for 
the future, though ho could not forget they 
must have a foundation far away from tho 
comfortable farm house of his father. In 
speaking of his failure to Jano he said,—“ I 
am sadly disappointed and low spirited to¬ 
night, both on your account and my own, 
for I think of you in your loneliness and 
affliction, and long to make up to you tho 
society of tho dear mother you have lost. 
I had hoped to mako arrangements for 
having you immediately with mo, but hav¬ 
ing failed in this, must still look afar off to 
the coming fall, or even perhaps to spring, 
ere I can bo blessed with your society.” 
In reply Jane answered, “ I can hardly 
say I am sorry you have failed in your con¬ 
templated arrangements, for I am illy pro- 
pared to becomo house-keeper at present, 
though whenever you aro ready for me, 
William, I shall be only too happy to share 
your homo. Six months, or a year, will 
scarcely bo too long for what I have to do, 
and I look forward to our now country homo 
with the sweetest assurance of - happiness. 
I am lonely, oh ! how lonely, deprived of my 
dear mother’s society; and as I find myself 
almost unfitted for business, and feeling that 
I need a little rest, I have accepted an in¬ 
vitation from Mary Carver to spend the 
month of July with her, and shall go out in 
the stage next week.” 
The next wook found William keeping 
“bachelor’s hall.” Tho family consisting 
only of his parents and himself, ho often 
spent a week or oven longer alone, going to 
the house of tho farm tenant for any neces¬ 
sary cooking he might want. It was Satur¬ 
day afternoon, and he was expecting his 
parents in the evening, so he had como in 
to tidy up his bachelor establishment, when 
tho noise of wheels rattling down tho steep 
hill close by, caused him to run to the door 
just in time to see the upsetting of the stage 
on tho top of an almost perpendicular bank 
or gully, at the bottom of which tho recent 
rains had made a quagmire of tho mucky 
soil. William hastened to tho spot, and tho 
first object that mot his cyo was Jano Har¬ 
vey, bonnetless, shoeless, with her dross 
soiled and torn, and altogether in a much 
more unpoetical plight than young gentle¬ 
men usually find their sweethearts. In 
jumping from tho stage sho had cleared tho 
barrier of logs at the side of tho road, and 
fairly landod at tho bottom of the gully in 
the quagmiro, whore her satchel and sundry 
articles of dress still lay. Tho other pas- 
songors, some five or six in number, were 
standing in a huddle near tho upset coach. 
“ Is any one hurt ?” asked William as ho 
camo up. 
“ No one of any consequenco, except this 
lady, who has a sprained anolo ; can we take 
her to your house, Mr. Turner ?” answerd 
the coachman. 
“ Certainly, but some femalo had bettor 
accompany her as tho family aro not at 
home. I see an old acquaintance here, and 
can, I think, prevail upon hor to remain a 
day or two with tho injured lady”—and ho 
advanced and gavo his hand to Jane, who 
had stood blushing and confused whore ho 
had first seen her. 
“ I am scarcely in plight to go on,” said 
Jane, glancing at her dress and holding up 
her soiled and ruinod bonnet. In spite of 
her doleful looks tho gentlemen could not 
suppress a smile at hor comical appearance, 
and poor Jane sat down and burst into tears. 
“Help the lady to the house,” said Wil¬ 
liam “ I will be there soon ;” and while some 
proceeded to do so, one took a horse and 
went for the village physician, and others 
assisted to right tho coach. William sat 
down by Jane and taking her hand from 
her faco inquired if sho was hurt. 
“ Not in the least; only voxed and mor¬ 
tified.” 
“ Well, never mind, dear Jane; this acci¬ 
dent will introduce you to my father, and 
will, I trust, be of more service to us than 
it can possibly bo annoyance to you.” 
“ But I am such a ridiculous figure, and 
your father is prejudiced against me already. 
“ Father is not at home. I have been keep¬ 
ing bachelor’s hall the whole week, and sad¬ 
ly need some ono; so you must ho my good 
angel and help mo make my guests comfort¬ 
able.” 
“I must mako myself presentable, and 
how I can hardly toll; thoro is my satchel,” 
and sho pointed to tho place where it lay 
half buried in mud and entirely covered 
with water. William laughed and again the 
blue eyes of Jano filled with tears. 
“ Never mind, never mind Jane ; ’tis tho 
best thing that could happen, I am sure— 
something good will como out of it; but wo 
must go home, tho lady will need something. 
Oh I am almost obliged to any accidont that 
has brought you to my home.” 
William laughed outright as the satchel 
came out with a “chug,” as if loth to leave 
its soft resting placo, and even Jano smiled. 
“ I havo been wondering what I shall do,” 
said Jano as they walked towards tho house, 
which the others had nearly reached. 
“ Have you no clothing with you ? I sup¬ 
pose you aro on your way to Mr. Carvers.” 
“ None but what aro in my satchol. Mary 
took my trunk when sho went last week.” 
“ Then you will have to don some of 
mother’s.” 
“ Well, as I may just as well laugh as cry, 
I will do the former.” 
“ After having cried to your heart’s con¬ 
tent ; hut I am glad to soe you cheer up.— 
You may go into mother’s room, and I givo 
you free choice among her tilings,” said 
William, opening a door from tho front 
stoop into a nice convenient room, evident¬ 
ly tho sleeping room of tho parents. 
Jano had no choico but to act upon Wil¬ 
liam’s suggestion and array herself in some 
of his mother’s clothes. Hor sunny faco 
looked scarcely less loveablo abovo tho 
quaint old fashioned dress and checked 
apron of tho old lady. 
Tho physician who was summoned found 
Mrs. Cay very little injured, only nervous 
and excited, and said a day’s rest at tho farm 
would sot hor right. Tho coach was re¬ 
paired and proceeded on its way within two 
hours—leaving only Mrs. Gay and Jane, 
who was scarcely in a condition to go on, as 
her bonuot was entirely ruined and her dress 
unwearable; besides, the ono in tho satchol 
was wet and muddied, though happily of a 
material that would bear washing. Tho 
Doctor’s anodyno soon put Mrs. Gay asleep. 
Jano having tidied up the rooms, cleaned 
the mud from her satchel, and washed tho 
clothing it contained, sat down to confer 
with William upon the state of affairs. 
“My parents will bo home to-night,” ho 
said. “ I wish they were hero now, for in¬ 
deed I am troubled about our appetites, 
unless you aro mistress of tho culinary art, 
for I have nothing eatable left and you must 
havo a good appetito.” 
“ Cooking is not my profession, but I will 
try and got a meal if you will furnish the 
material.” 
“ Can you cook a chicken T 
“ Yes.” 
“ And dress it ?” 
“ Yes, if need be.” 
Chanticleer was soon headless, nicely 
picked, dressed and boiling in tho pot. Oh 
how exultingly had William watched her 
movements as she proceeded unhesitatingly 
with tho meal, as though confident of her 
ability. 
“ I would liko a slico of pork; and, as you 
are entirely destitute of eatables, I supposo 
some biscuit must be made,—besides I want 
a crust for my fricassoo.” 
William had never listened to her sweet¬ 
est notes with more delight than he now felt. 
The dairy-house was visited for fresh butter¬ 
milk, the garden for the material for the pio 
and sauce, tho coffee was nicely roasted and 
prepared for steeping, and all things were 
progressing finely. Jane’s pretty hands wero 
thick with tho biscuit dough, when a wagon 
drew up at tho door, and a minute after old 
Mr. and Mrs. Turner entered tho liouso.— 
They had met Dr. Harris and hoard of tho 
accident as thoy camo along. 
“ Como, Jano,” said William, turning her 
round with the dough sticking to her hands. 
“ Father and Mother, this is Miss J<me Har¬ 
vey, of whom I have so often spoken. She 
was detainod by the upsetting of tho coach 
and has kindly undertaken to prepare sup- 
por.” 
Jano felt that she would gladly hide her 
faco a second time and cry, but the state of 
her hands forbade; so sho blushed and said, 
“ I havo invaded your pantry, Mrs. Tur¬ 
ner, for we wero very hungry.” 
“ You havo done right, just right—Cod 
bless you for a good girl,” said old Mr. Tur¬ 
ner, and shaking William heartily by the 
hand added, “Sho shall never invade it again, 
for she has conquered, and the premises 
shall bo ceded to hor whenever sho will tuko 
possession.” 
The meal was soon ready, tho pies nicely 
bakod and tho fricassee done to a turn. In 
aftor years the old gentleman recounted 
Jano’s droll introduction and declared that 
supper was tho best ho ever tastod; when 
sho would say he was tired and hungry, and 
William would add slily, she was on trial. 
“ I must go over and assist Mrs. Price to¬ 
day,” said Jano ono morning at the break¬ 
fast tablo, when sho had been Mrs. Turner 
for two years, and when Phebe Smith, now 
Mrs. Price, lived in tho tenant house.— 
“ She gots along so badly with houshkeep- 
ing that I promised to go over and givo hor 
a lesson in cooking.” 
“ Why, sho was tho most notable house¬ 
wife in all tho town,” said old Mr. Turner. 
“ I thought sho would ho a prize for any 
young man ; such broad as you always found 
there.” 
“Which hor mother made, as I always 
suspected,” said William. 
“ Well she really fools desirous to learn 
now, and wishes hor mother had given her 
the knowledge instead of the reputation of 
housekeeping.” 
“ You havo never told mo, Jano, how it 
happened that you who got your living by 
teaching music understood house work so 
well.” 
“ Why, father, I worked in tho best regu¬ 
lated farmer’s kitchen two years, and would 
havo continued there only tho remunera¬ 
tion was so small,—and I believe many and 
many a girl who sews or teaches would pre¬ 
fer housework could sho earn as much.— 
Teoplo aro to blamo in a measure for tho 
poor help thoy have, as the wages they of¬ 
fer drives overy ono capable of doing houso- 
work well into doing something else that 
will pay better. I could not work for ton 
shillings a week, when, by teaching, I could 
earn ten dollars.” 
“ To bo sure not; but I never thought of 
that before, and supposed girls who taught 
felt above doing housework.” 
“ Somo no doubt do, but thoy have a vory 
wrong idea. Thoro is no moro slavish life 
than that of a teacher, and in my estimation 
if wo offered a fair remuneration, girls ca- 
pablo of doing housework well would quali¬ 
fy themselves for that labor, and we should 
no longer suffer as wo now do from employ¬ 
ing ignorant, inefficient help. 
Jano Turnor has long been a blessing to 
her husband and his father’s family. A 
neat, systematic and prudent housekeeper, 
who does not fool it right to mako a slave of 
herself in order to save tho expense of ne¬ 
cessary help, but who can readily turn a 
helping hand whenever tho want of one 
appears. There is no better butter and 
cheeso than comes from Mrs. Tumor’s dai¬ 
ry-house. Than hers thoro aro no healthier 
or happier children. And finally there is 
no moro skilful nurso, no kinder neighbor, 
no more affectionate daug-hter, and no more 
dovoted wife than Mrs. William Turner.— 
Her husband and his parents havo long 
blessed tho day of Jane Harvey’s Intro¬ 
duction. 
Here is Fanny Fern’s idea of “ femalo 
friendship —Two women joining the mu¬ 
tual admiration society; emptying their 
budget of love affairs ; comparing bait to 
attract victims ; sighing over tho same rose 
leaf; patronizing tho samo milliner and ex¬ 
changing female kisses. Betty, hand mo 
my tan ! 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: 
A WEEKLY HOME JOURNAL, 
For both Country and Town Residents. 
PUBLICATION OFFICE, 
Burns’ Block, corner State and Buffalo Sts., 
Rochester, N. Y. 
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